


This

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Gunplay, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is messed up. Shawn knows it is, but he can't stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinjah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sinjah).



> This was written for sinjah, who wanted some gunkink. Then it went all angsty and dark. (Yay!) Some mention of Shawn/Abigail.

The words barely leave his mouth—stupid, jerky words, so insensitive that even Shawn knows it—and he's down. He's driven Lassie too far this time, but he has to push in this game they play, has to push to get _this_. Only it doesn't feel like a game now. It's feel real suddenly, life or death, heart-stoppingly real, what he's doing to himself, to Lassie, by pushing them both to this edge.

Lassie's not happy. He's never happy with this, with the way Shawn doesn't ask but chases after him and pokes and prods and mocks until Lassie has him and forces him down, until Shawn's bent over, tied up, _bruised_ , quiet and good for the only times in his life. Lassiter likes that, loves that too much to stop—at least he hasn't stopped Shawn yet—but it isn't enough, and the frustration makes his grip harder, and his thrusts rougher.

He likes that too, hurting Shawn and Shawn enjoying being hurt and Shawn enjoying that it's _Lassiter_ hurting him, but as much as Lassie likes it—loves it, loves it so much he never wants to let go—he still isn't happy.

Lassie comes but Shawn can see lines at his eyes, at his mouth, and can feel how he shakes when he's done, when he makes Shawn come too and Shawn always immediately pulls away.

When it isn't this, Lassie is soft and warm and clings like ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends and ex-wives who leave. Or, he tried to. He doesn't anymore, the way he doesn't speak about girlfriends, not until he has Shawn _down_ and there are teeth and big hands hurting him so _good_ , making Shawn feel everything he's ever done wrong.

Shawn flaunts a girlfriend and that's wrong. Shawn lies and that's wrong too. But mostly Shawn does this, turns Lassie into this because he can and it's so wrong. It's Gus would never forgive him wrong and Henry shaking his head wrong and Lassie silently watching him with Abigail wrong wrong wrong.

 _Shawn_ is wrong. But this makes him right again, Lassie punishing him for it. Lassie, making him suffer so much that he spills a load in his jeans, into Lassie's hands, his mouth and then does whatever Lassie wants to make up for what he's taking.

He's on his knees and the cement is cold, this is almost _public_ , and there it is, out of him for anyone to see, and he gives it up easily, waiting for pain and humiliation and the anger that he sparks in Lassiter that nobody else can.

Someday Lassie will stop this, will get tired of waiting for Shawn and find someone else, someone _good_ who might not want this but who will want the rest of him—want him openly—and Shawn can't take the thought so he speaks again. He has no idea what he says, but Lassie's jacket is gone, and Lassie standing over him and Shawn's eyes go somewhere new, to where they shouldn't.

It _should_ make Lassie happy to treat him this way, for the man to dominate him in almost every way, and the very fact that it never does only drives Shawn further. There has to be something, _something_ to finally make Lassie break. If not spankings and bite marks and cuffs, then ligature marks and rug burns and come in his hair.

But he looks, stares, at the gun and asks if Lassie is so upset because he can't get it up anymore without making Shawn bleed when that just _isn't true_ , but Shawn is a liar, and his mouth is open—Is his mouth open? Because then he's lying—and then suddenly he's gulping and slightly afraid but mostly just turned on and relieved that yes this is happening, and swallowing, swallowing spit that tastes like oil and Lassie's hands, smelling cordite and his own arousal, and it's like eating his words, or cock, but mostly just like being _put in his place_ and that's exactly what he wants.

Psychic Lassie. Good Lassie. Sessy Lassie, giving Shawn what he wants, what he needs, sliding it slowly in over his tongue and forcing his head back, telling him to do what he already knows he has to do.

"Suck."

And Shawn does, in his place, a bitch with a mouth full of Glock.

He doesn't know if he can, for a moment, he doesn't even know if the gun is loaded; it's Lassie, so it might be, because Lassie is spring-loaded and ready for action at all times. Shawn saw the safety before, saw it _on_ , but he moves his tongue before he's even aware that he doesn't care if the safety is on or not.

He trusts, he thinks, he _trusts_ it to be, which is as novel as the first time he'd done this and realized that whatever he asked for, Lassie would never _really_ hurt him. He trusts Lassiter not to break him, and that makes no sense when he wants Lassiter to break _for_ him.

He's shaking as he hollows his cheeks, as he draws hard like he's going to get come from the barrel of Lassie's gun, like he _wants to_ , and flushes, blushes like a kid or a girl, when he looks up and sees the flare in Lassie's eyes.

"This isn't a joke," Lassie is telling him. "This is more than a paycheck. This is life and death. You won't mock it again, will you, Spencer?" The words are almost by rote, but Lassie's job and the crime scene aren't what are at stake here. Lassie's voice is rough, shocked, just like it had been when he'd dragged Shawn back here from the crime scene and shoved Shawn down to his knees.

Shoved him down though Shawn had gone easily, so easily because Lassie had tossed off his jacket and Shawn had seen his holster, and the gun on display for him. The cement would bruise too. Like marks on his arms from Lassiter grabbing him. Things that healed over and didn't matter.

This was stupid, dangerous, alpha male and primitive, but Lassie had started it—no, Shawn had tricked him, pushed for this, one too many gropes, one too many jokes, one too many reckless actions in front of Lassie's gun and a bad guy and what else had Lassie been able to do? He'd _had_ to show Shawn he was in charge. He hadn't expected Shawn to be so willing, but he should have known. Shawn had known, the same way he'd known Lassie would like it.

Something bursts from Lassie's mouth, hot and vicious, and Shawn immediately nods in quick, jerky motions.

"Bitch." The word is sour in Lassie's mouth, like he hates himself when he should hate Shawn, but he holds his gun steady just the same. He'd drawn it for Shawn like this was a Western and it was high noon and Shawn had to go down.

And boy did he.

"You put lives in danger, Spencer... You risk _everything_..." Lassiter tells him and Shawn is agreeing, silent around the weapon filling his mouth. “No you...you're crazy, you're...”

He can't stop now. Not there. Shawn deserves this. He knows it and nods again. Lassie makes a sound, a grunt, like he's going to stop, pull out, and Shawn reaches up to wrap sweaty fingers over Lassiter's hand and hold the gun there. He looks like a suicide, imagines the hot splatter of come on his skin, In his mouth, and his tongue is swirling, tasting metal, a faint burn, cold and then hot steel, force, _deadly_ force, and lessons that he never bothered to learn. Until now.

He hadn't known it was like that, trust and death and life and love all at the same time.

"That's it, Spencer." It's drawn out of Lassie too, and Lassie's other hand moves to grip his hair, destroying its perfection, but Shawn lets eyes drift closed in gratitude and lets his mouth be gun fucked. "Aren't so mouthy now," Lassie sneers breathlessly, playing his part and yanking Shawn's head back, making his scalp burn with a new sort of agony as he slides the gun in and out.

Shawn's so hard it hurts.

He's touching himself, but his hand isn't enough. Not with his cheeks stinging and his mouth full of too much spit. Lassie is fucking him slow, and Shawn imagines Lassie watching in sick fascination as his Glock pushes between Shawn's lips. He likes it, Shawn can tell by the fist clenched in his hair. Lassie is going to feel guilty later, hate himself a little, but right now he's _giving Shawn what he wants_ and it's just right.

"Suck it, Spencer." The words are as unfamiliar to Lassie's mouth as the gun is to Shawn's, but Lassie yanks Shawn's hair again, pulling him up, and Shawn's stretching to follow him.

“No, I...” Lassie immediately calls it back, too soft when Shawn is so close. “Damn it, _no_.” He's going to ask, have questions in his eyes, and Shawn shakes his head.

His eyes fly open, a little helplessly, a lot helplessly, when Lassie withdraws the gun. He whimpers with a mouth that feels too big, feels another blush of humiliation. But it's just for a moment, and then there's Lassie's cock in his mouth, hot, hard, deadly, and there's pre-come and steel filling his senses.

It's something. Hard and real and Lassie is moaning above him.

“Why, Spencer?” he's asking. He's finally asking, like this has gone too far for him at last and desperation makes Shawn clutch at his legs, his waist. “Why?” he wonders again, until Shawn wraps his sweat-sticky fingers around the base of Lassie's cock and feels like a suicide as he blows Lassie's mind. Lassie wants him so much, enough to give him this, not enough to tell Shawn to stop until now.

He can't leave. Shawn focuses on that, on pushing, pushing to make Lassie stay. He doesn't know where the gun is, but doesn't care now, just shudders at the pain and the taste and Lassie's growling. He deliberately doesn't swallow everything when Lassie finally comes, lets some hit his skin like a dirty, cocksucking, Glocksucking porn star. Like a slut in need. Like a bitch in his place.

That's what he is, and Lassie knows it now. He already knows about the lies. Now that's everything, but Shawn leans forward, on his knees, licking until he's told to stop, until the hand in his hair tightens some more, and then that strange whimper leaves him again. He should be leaving. Should be gone. Walking away with a limp or a stretched mouth, a few marks to hide under long sleeves. What he is should be on him, like the jizz on his cheek, until he chooses to hide it.

Lassie's hand tightens again, holds him there, pulls him back to see his face, and it doesn't hurt, but Shawn nods before dropping his eyes.

“Enough,” Lassie tells him, soft, and Shawn is aware that he's clinging, that he's hard, that he's waiting. He listens to Lassiter's breathing, and can't think of a single thing to say that isn't _don't end this. Please_.

The End


End file.
